


The Peach

by alexaprilgarden



Series: This is what I want [2]
Category: Call Me By Your Name - All Media Types, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, New Year's Eve, POV Sherlock, PWP, Sherlock fantasizes about John, sad wanking, wanking, with a happy ending, with a peach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-02
Updated: 2018-01-02
Packaged: 2019-02-22 06:22:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13161096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexaprilgarden/pseuds/alexaprilgarden
Summary: Sherlock tries the thing with the peach. For science.





	The Peach

**Author's Note:**

  * For [isitandwonder](https://archiveofourown.org/users/isitandwonder/gifts), [ForYou_InSilence](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ForYou_InSilence/gifts).



> @isitandwonder and @monikakrasnorada requested a scene which is mentioned in my fic [ This is what I want](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12944340) \- where Sherlock, like Elio in _Call Me by Your Name_ , masturbates with a peach. Here it is.  
>   
> I'm feeling guilty because I've made my wonderful @green-violin-bow beta 18k in the last couple of weeks. You're the absolute best, I can't thank you enough.

“Sherlock!” 

John is in the kitchen, barefoot on the linoleum floor, naked in the chilly December flat. Sherlock waits for him in bed, his legs still tangled in the duvet. 

He pictures John, how the cool light from the fridge he just heard him opening casts a blue-white gleam on his face. He pictures John’s face — open and kind, the traces of sadness and difficult times slowly fading. Sometimes there is a steely look in his eyes, when you don’t expect it and yet at exactly the right moments. _Still an army doctor._

Last week, Sherlock took him to a crime scene for the first time. It went even better than he’d expected and the idea of solving cases with John makes him shiver with excitement. 

Sherlock thinks of the lines around John’s eyes that show when he smiles. John has been smiling a lot these last three weeks. He must be smiling now, as he looks at the mess in the fridge. John still isn’t used to the things stored in Sherlock’s fridge, and he doesn’t quite approve, either. But he accepts it and more often than not the experiments and its remnants make John marvel — _marvel?_ Is that what he does? — at Sherlock’s thirst for knowledge, at his occasionally rather creative approach to science. 

Sherlock hears the cracking noise as the freezer is opened. John is taking out the bottle of champagne that Sherlock had bought spontaneously on the way to the restaurant, meeting John after his shift at the clinic. He’d put it in the freezer to quickly cool it when they got back to Baker Street, before making their way to his bedroom, kissing and pushing each other against the walls of the hallway. 

“Sherlock!” 

John sounds startled. 

“Yes?” 

“Why is there a _peach_ in your freezer? And — for God’s sake — what’s happened to it?” 

— 

An experiment. Sherlock had made it an experiment. He had tried to get the best peaches in London, although, given the season, the temperature, the duration of transport and the difference between local Italian breeds and those for export, the ones he bought at Borough Market were probably nothing like the ones mentioned in the novel. 

He’d bought three, eaten one to determine taste, texture, juiciness and colour and left the other two for the experiment. They sat in front of him on the kitchen table. 

Was it possible to masturbate, what — he checked the novel again, the page already dog-eared — _into_ a peach? 

He took the book, his phone and one of the two remaining peaches and went to his bedroom. 

He put them carefully on the bedside table and started unbuttoning his shirt. He took his time undressing and put his folded clothes on the chair. For a moment, he stood next to his bed, naked. 

The peach stood out in his bedroom, beaming with its orange-pink-red colour. It felt like a visitor from abroad still wearing sunglasses and the wrong clothes, someone from a warmer, brighter country, a little out of place. 

He took it in his hand. It was soft, its fine hairs velvety under his fingertips. Almost like human skin. He brought it to his lips, inhaled the scent, sweet and fruity like a summer day, even in December, even in London. 

He licked along the crease of the peach to determine if the skin had a taste in itself, which it didn’t. It reminded him of buttocks, firm and round and more beautiful than he had dared to acknowledge in years. Firm, round buttocks with soft blond hairs. He licked into the little dip where the stem had once sat. 

He lay down on his bed, placed the peach next to him and reached for his phone, opened the app to play the audiobook of _Call Me by Your Name_. The voice of the narrator, the blond American actor, filled his bedroom as if the man had just lain down next to him, telling him in a low voice how Elio abused the fruit. 

Sherlock closed his eyes, put the phone on the mattress and listened. He simply listened, not doing anything. He wasn’t touching anything, not the peach, not himself. He let the images in his mind come up — Elio on his bed, his index finger slowly wandering along the crease of the peach, touching it, caressing it. His heaving chest, his head thrown back, the familiar jerking motion of his arm. 

Elio was a beautiful man, not quite Sherlock’s type, though, too much like himself. Sherlock pictured himself there, lying on that bed in the house in Italy, thinking of his lover. Thinking of the night they’d spent together, how his lover had sucked his cock a mere few hours before. He imagined being in love like that, desiring someone like that. Feeling someone else’s skin on his own, the aroused body of someone else. He imagined waiting to hear someone else’s steps on the balcony, coming to his room, seeing him like that. The way he was lying there, naked, hard. 

This felt good. It felt good even without touching, but the urge to wrap his fingers around himself and the need for friction became irresistible. He propped himself up on his elbows and looked down. He was hard, his cock was flushed against his belly, dark velvety pink against his pale skin and auburn hair. Sherlock has always liked the way he looks naked. Something about himself, for once, he’s never worried about, never been ashamed to reveal. 

He was tempted to take his cock in his hand and stroke it, but instead he took the peach from the bedside cabinet. 

_I got up and reached for one of the peaches, opened it halfway with my thumbs, pushed the pit out on my desk and gently brought the fuzzy, blush-colored fruit to my groin and began to press into it until the parted fruit slit down my cock._

Sherlock gasped. The wet, firm flesh of the peach felt perfect on the head of his cock. It was tight, applying just the right amount of pressure. He watched his cock slide into the fruit. 

God, it had been ages. 

It had been ages since he had last had sex with someone. For him, sex, and more than that, relationships, had never worked very well. The first time he’d ended up with spectacular pain and heartbreak. After that, he’d refused to even try to find a connection with the people he slept with, which resulted in complete indifference towards the whole act and increasing annoyance with the tediousness of his partners and the mess that sex usually meant. 

Masturbation was _relieving_ and reliably pleasant. Although he had perfected his technique over the years, he didn’t always find it easy to make himself come. He usually tried to stay detached even as he wanked, never letting anyone get close to him, not even in fantasies. He’d rather not investigate how touch-starved he was. How much he wanted to hold someone and be held by him, how much he wanted someone else to look at him with desire, with hunger and want. The way Elio had looked at Oliver. 

His chest felt tight, and so he started to move the peach, slowly rubbing it up and down, while its juice trickled down his cock, into his pubic hair and along his balls. It left a wet, sticky trace that felt unbearably arousing. 

It _was_ arousing. Much more so than he had anticipated. The sensation was one aspect — wet, tight, firm and soft at the same time — but it was the act itself that made his skin prickle with lust. Lying there on his bed, fucking a peach, with the aim of pleasing himself, of making himself come. 

(He considered the experiment a success at this point. Masturbating into a peach was, technically speaking, both possible and pleasurable.) 

He thrust into the peach while the actor read from the book how Elio came, spurted into the peach and fell asleep afterwards. How he was woken by Oliver, how Oliver sucked Elio’s cock and enjoyed the sticky taste of it. Sherlock tried picturing the blond man sucking his cock, lips stretching around it, pink tongue licking its head. Sherlock groaned. 

_Oh — oh. Yes…_

He couldn’t quite focus on the face of the actor, it was blurring with someone else, blond hair streaked with silver as he bowed his head to swallow Sherlock deeper — 

_Go on, yes, just — go on —_

He thought of thin lips wrapping around his cock, a hand holding it at its base, stroking in sync with a sucking, swirling tongue. He could almost feel it dart into the slit at the top and he didn’t bite back his moan at the thought. He was louder than the voice from his phone, but he didn’t care, he wasn’t even listening to it any more. It was all in his head now, all in his mind — the man, bent down over him, sucking him. 

He put two fingers into his own mouth, sucking them hard, coating them with his spit. He groaned, feeling his tongue against his fingertips, wild and needy. He thrust harder into the peach, setting a quicker pace. This was better than anything he had felt in years. 

Maybe the man would moan as well, because he loved the taste of Sherlock, sticky-sweet and salty, because he loved giving him head, because he got off on making him come with his mouth. Maybe John would — 

_John._

John, whom he had met five days ago at the cinema, watching _Call Me by Your Name_ and whom he had allowed to see him open, broken and vulnerable. John, to whom he’d revealed more than he’d ever told a single person, after Victor. John, who had taken care of him, bought him a drink and listened to him. John, who — miraculously — had trusted Sherlock enough to tell him about his own demons. John, who, with his simple and calm _John_ -ness, had invaded and laid claim to Sherlock’s mind, to his heart. 

It was John Sherlock pictured, John he fantasized about, John he wanted sucking his cock. It was John he wanted. 

For a moment, he stopped dead in his movements, shocked at this realization. His ragged breath was loud in the silence of the room, against the sonorous voice reading the novel on his phone. 

He tried to calm down, to focus, but he couldn’t. Realizing that he _wanted_ John was frightening _._ And the danger that lay in that realization only fueled everything he felt, everything his body yearned for. 

Heady with lust, he wasn’t strong enough to cut himself off from the man he wanted (to suck him, touch him, make him come; to kiss him, to hold him, to caress him while he was shivering with the aftershocks, to fall asleep and wake up with him). He let the fantasy unravel anew: how he would hear John’s steps on the stairs to his flat at night. How John would see him, here, in his bedroom. How John would stroke Sherlock’s cock with his small, steady hand that had touched his own cock so many, _many_ times in exactly the same way. How John would be naked and beautiful, scarred and a little dangerous, solid and real. How John’s cock would jolt at Sherlock’s touches, how it would be hard and leaking and — 

He moved faster, cock sheathed in the peach, making wet, slurping sounds with every thrust, just like it would in John’s mouth. He imagined John’s hot breath on his skin, panting through his nose, saliva dripping from his lips and over Sherlock’s balls like the juice of the peach did now. 

He squeezed the peach a little harder, knowing he would crush it, mimicking John sucking him harder. He moved faster, just like he would as he fucked John’s mouth, because there would be _no way_ not to go faster at this point, where all he could do was try not to make John gag while his cock pushed against his soft palate — 

He moaned just like he would to show John how much he enjoyed this, loved this. Because it would turn him on to vocalize his own arousal, to be lewd and filthy. He moaned again, louder, and it _did_ turn him on, he loved hearing the need in his own ragged voice. The idea of being seen in this state, hazy with want, of feeling no shame being watched as he was about to orgasm, of revealing his desperate need to come to another person, of sharing the pure joy of having sex — it was shockingly erotic. 

He loved seeing his cock thrust into the battered peach and _Oh, oh_ how he’d love seeing his cock slide into John’s mouth. This was so good, just so fucking good. He imagined the look in John’s eyes as he fucked his mouth. _Oh God_. He imagined watching John’s hand slide down between his legs, jerking himself with quick, hard strokes, going fast and faster and — 

The peach was smashed, a juicy pulp where he’d pushed into its soft, wet flesh. He squeezed what was left of it around his cock. 

_Oh, this is perfect, this is it, this, this —_

His skin tingled, tickling with lust, and his orgasm built. That sweet, intense moment when bliss and fulfillment hovered in every cell of his body, in his toes and his fingertips, on his lips, in his nipples and fucking, _fucking hell_ in his cock. That moment when his body was nothing but sensation, and the _fucking_ best sensation at that. 

He pictured John coming, groaning around Sherlock’s cock, the expression on his face. He pictured him coming because he’d sucked Sherlock’s cock and— 

_Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh —_ Sherlock was coming, he was coming so hard, so _fucking hard_ his hand was going to cramp, but _fuck, fuck, FUCK, John's face, John, oh,_

_JOHN —_

For an inexplicable moment, the universe was in a state of perfect equilibrium. And he was at its centre. 

He was still shivering when he opened his eyes again. His throat felt dry and raw, he must have been loud indeed. His hand was sticky and the peach was a mess, broken into two squishy halves. Peach juice mingled with come on his belly and cock. 

He still saw John’s face, his eyes — not drunk on arousal, but the way he had looked at him at the pub, after they had watched the film. The way John had looked him when Sherlock had started to talk. 

And then he knew it with absolute clarity. He had to see John again. 

Eventually, he got up and went to the bathroom to take a shower. He lay on the sofa afterwards for hours, clad in an old t-shirt, pyjama bottoms and dressing gown, and thought. Thought about John. 

It was late — or maybe it was early? — when Sherlock rose from the sofa. The light of dawn had begun to seep into the living room; morning, then. The fantasies he’d had about John now felt off; overly daring and perhaps overly simple. But fantasies were also less messy, less complicated than real life. You were a more courageous, a more audacious — a _better_ version of yourself. 

And yet he still had to see John again. 

Sherlock heard Mrs Hudson open the front door to what sounded like Mycroft and some of his minions. He checked his phone as he headed for his bedroom. There were twelve increasingly worried texts from his brother, who had apparently considered this a danger night. Sherlock frowned. He’s been clean for years, but if someone would have asked him a week ago, he’d indeed have said that he’d been clean far too long. But now — the world seemed so much more interesting with the fascinating existence of John. 

The last text was spiked with the threat of a drugs bust if Sherlock didn’t call him back within the next five minutes. It had been sent an hour ago. He grabbed the remnants of the violated peach and hurried back to the kitchen, Mycroft's familiar gait on the stairs. He wasn’t in the mood to answer any questions about the peach or the state of his heart. He scanned the kitchen for a suitable hiding place, gaze skimming over the burnt and twisted rubbish bin that still needed replacing; finally he opened the freezer and shoved the peach inside. Nobody ever asked about his experiments, not even Mycroft. 

— 

“Hurry up, John, you’ve only got two minutes!” 

John comes back to bedroom, the bottle of champagne in one hand, two glasses in the other. He puts the glasses on the bedside cabinet and opens the bottle. It spills over and champagne runs down John’s hands. Sherlock is tempted to lick it off his fingers. 

When John hands him a glass of champagne, the bells start chiming with the arrival of 2018. 

“Here’s to us, Sherlock. Happy New Year,” John says, already leaning in for a kiss. 

“Happy New Year,” Sherlock whispers against John’s cheek when they finally part. 

They both sip the champagne; it sparkles on Sherlock’s tongue. John sits back and leans against the headboard. 

“Now. What was the peach about?” 

“Experiment. You know my methods, John.” 

Sherlock tries his best to sound mock-innocent, teasing him. 

“Ah,” John says, still a bit incredulous and obviously trying to figure out what kind of experiment might include a somewhat smashed peach. Sherlock watches him. He must be thinking of the film they watched together, twice; suddenly he understands, cocks an eyebrow, and smiles. 

“How did it turn out then?” 

“Absolutely —” Sherlock takes the glass from John’s hand and puts it, together with his own, on the bedside cabinet. He wants to seduce John, to make him yearn for another round of love-making, to coax breathless moans and gasped curses out of him. He runs his hands down from John’s lips to the naked sides of his torso, down to the delicate skin on John’s hip bones. 

But then — then he has to lower his eyes, pretending to look at his hands on John’s skin. He isn’t prepared to face the gratitude he feels for having John in his life. A long moment of hesitation passes, and he forces himself to look at John, to show him, to hold his gaze. 

John understands and swallows, expression soft and full of emotion. He leans in again and kisses Sherlock slowly. He kisses him as if it was the only thing he ever wanted to do. Afterwards, Sherlock lets his lips linger on John’s for another moment and, in a whisper, finishes what he’s meant to say. 

“Absolutely successful.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Mainly written on Timothée Chalamet's birthday on Dec 27 while I was in bed, wrecked with sinusitis. Happy belated birthday, Timmy.


End file.
